


that which we give up

by whodunit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, a conversation by the fire, old spells gone wrong, screw fate embrace choice, soul mates but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whodunit/pseuds/whodunit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Echoes of a spell from the elves of old give their descendants glimpses of another half, someone out there who will complete them in every way. Apparently Lavellan sees these glimpses. Apparently whoever he sees isn't Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that which we give up

**Author's Note:**

> at some point in skyhold i think solas mentioned old spells that were powerful enough that their effects were felt for centuries afterwards. maybe. or i imagined it. either way, inspired by that.

They are resting within Lavellan's quarters. It has been a long, tiring day. At least for Dorian. It's seemed more a typical day for Lavellan, which is in and of itself an exhausting thought. Said Inquisitor is at his desk, busy writing yet more letters, reading over yet more proposals, seeing to yet more demands. Never a moment of peace, not for him.

Dorian is curled in one of the massive armchairs by the fire that Lavellan requested be brought to his quarters once Dorian started spending his evenings here. He had come tonight with the intention to read. The book in question is even open across his lap. But he hasn't bothered to look at it in the last hour. Instead he's been distracting himself with watching the logs burning in the fire, or the moon drifting over the mountain peaks, or the dust gathering on the mantelpiece. Really anywhere but at the pages in front of him, or the elf across the room.

But the room is quiet, and while at times Dorian appreciates the quiet, today it feels like a weight pressing in. He can feel the words bubbling up in his throat, the way they do sometimes. Spilling out before he has a chance to think them through, whether he really wants to say them.

"I read a curious thing the other day." He glances at Lavellan from beneath his lashes.

"Oh?" Lavellan doesn't look up from his letter. His quill continues to scratch along the parchment, a dry, loud sound. But his eyebrows raise. He's listening. "And what was that?"

"It was in this book here, actually." He takes a page between his fingertips. Worrying at the paper. "Which, thank you, by the way. Always appreciate you bringing back these dusty, moldy things for me." A soft smile flickers across Lavellan's face. "It's a strange little book. Full of old legends. I'd been hoping there might be something in here about archdemons, or dragons, but it’s mostly rubbish. I should give it to Cassandra. It seems much more to her taste. There's even an odd passage--silly really, she would love this--" He keeps his voice light, like he's teasing. "--about how elves sometimes see glimpses of, well, I don't quite know the word. You know, elvish and all that. Never my specialty." He keep an eye on Lavellan, trying to catch if there’s any change in expression. "But basically it boils down to something about an 'other half,' where you see glimpses of this one true soul that will complete you. And so on and so forth, the stuff of epic ballads and all that."

The quill continues to scratch along the parchment. Lavellan has still not looked up. "Are you asking me this because I'm an elf?"

"Well, I can see where you would be thinking that, except Solas already beat you to that part. I may have asked him about it, and he may have confirmed this, at least, has some basis in truth. Unlike most of the drivel in here."

Lavellan shrugs, a slow fluid roll of one shoulder. "It does."

"Is this something your clan spoke about? Was it part of your lore?"

"It was." Its almost hypnotic watching him write, watching the quill trace back and forth. "Each clan has their own particular spin on the tale, but the core remains the same. That there were two lovers, long ago, separated by time and space. They cast a spell, a powerful one, that would allow them to find one another. What we have now are the echoes of that spell, rippling through the ages, bestowing their descendants with its gift so that they too may find their beloved."

"Ah. Sounds quite romantic."

Lavellan lets out a derisive snort. "It may have been, once. Now it's considered little more than a curse."

"Curse? Not quite what I would expect, not from a tale like that."

"Whatever spell it was before, it's now a shell of itself. Nowadays, if you're so unlucky as to see these visions, they're often little more than shadowy silhouettes. Imagine it. Plagued all your life by glimpses of a stranger, yet not able to truly see them. For all you know, you could be passing them everyday in the market. Many have driven themselves mad over it, spending years searching for someone who may not even truly exist. Dying alone with only their waking fever dreams to bring them comfort."

"Ah, well, yes. I can see whether that would rather deaden the appeal."

"It is not something I would wish on another, no." The quill writes a few more words, and then stills. Lavellan finally glances up, expression curious. "Why are you bringing this up? It isn't like you, to ask after things like this."

"You know me. Always eager to know more about you and your people. Yet more ammunition I may someday be able to use against my own."

Lavellan twirls the quill between his fingers, once, twice. "There's another question you're not asking."

Dorian glances down at his book, but finds himself unable to focus on the words. The other question burns in the back of his throat. "Solas said you see these visions. He's seen it, in your dreams."

"Ah.” They are quiet for a few moments more. Sap pops in the fireplace. “Between him and Cole, privacy of thought seems a rare commodity these days."

Dorian glances back up. Lavellan is still watching him. Unnerving, at times, to have the entirety of his focus on you. Reminds you that he was, first and foremost, long before all this, a hunter for his clan. When Dorian speaks, he’s pleased his voice sounds no different than it normally does. "He said it's not me. That you see. When I asked him."

"Did he now." Lavellan’s tone is unreadable.

"Not that I expected it to be, of course. My vanity knows no bounds, but I can't say the same of my arrogance.” He’s rambling, he recognizes that, but he can’t seem to reign in his tongue. “My curiosity though, sadly, follows in the footsteps of the former. It’s been driving me to distraction all day. Unable to leave well enough alone.”

Lavellan says nothing. Instead, he gathers together the pages of the letter in front of him and taps them once, twice against the desk, then sets them aside. He hasn't bothered to set the ink with sand. The words will all smear.

Dorian feels an irrational flash of anger about that. He's not even sure why. Just that anger seems preferable to anything else, right now. "Done with your evening missives already? They often take you another hour or so."

"No. They still need tending to."

Dorian closes his book. "Then don’t stop on my behalf. I won't be able to sleep at night if a minor war outbreaks in Orlais due to your untimely response to some nobles’ bickering.” He wants to be out of this room. It was foolish to bring any of this up.

He’s barely up when he finds his hand clasped in one of Lavellan's. He hadn't even heard him move.

He startles out of reflex, his heart fluttering in his chest. Woodland hunters with their silent footsteps and their speed. It’s going to be the death of him, someday.

Lavellan keeps a hold on Dorian’s hand. "What Solas fails to mention--and also that book of yours, likely written by some idiot high on romantic ideals with no concern for accuracy--is than it is an incomplete spell. It was cast for elves, and so it only works for elves. It will only ever show another elf."

"I don't see how that makes a difference here." Dorian makes a half-hearted attempt at tugging his hand free. Lavellan, of course, doesn’t let go. Typical.

"It does make a difference. What it mean is that it only shows us one possibility of many." His voice grows quiet. "I didn't understand that, not at first. When the glimpses first came, when I was young, I will admit I was obsessed with them. Convinced I would be happy, only happy, if I found whoever it was."

"Why are you telling me this." Dorian had started this conversation knowing where this would go, and yet that still hurts to hear, more than he expected.

"Because things change. Holes rip open in the sky. Mysterious Tevinter mages whisk you off into the future.” His words are teasing but his eyes serious. “But even long before that I simply--grew up. Realized things. Like the fact that there are multiple ways to live your life. To be happy. Yes, there may be an elf out there, somewhere, who would bring me great happiness. But I shouldn't let that keep me from seeing what I already have in front of me." Lavellan reaches up with his free hand, cupping the side of Dorian's face. One thumb, rough with calluses, brushes gently along his cheekbone. A gentle smile appears on Lavellan's face, the one that always precludes some incredibly sappy and gag-worthy sentiment. "Why bother chasing a dream when I’m living one."

"Maker, you could give Varric a run for his money," Dorian chides. He can feel the heat rushing to his face despite, and he pushes Lavellan’s hand away in the hopes that he won’t take notice. "Are you sure it's not you writing his terrible novels in his name?"

"What's to say that wasn't what I was working on just now."

"Then I've done Thedas a favor, distracting you when I did."

Lavellan makes no answer, only tugs him closer by the hand he still holds clasped.

\--

Later, they lay in bed. The book sprawls forgotten on the carpet. Dorian has decided he’s going to destroy it, but for now he has his head nestled upon Lavellan's shoulder, and Lavellan is gently carding his fingers through Dorian’s hair, occasionally tracing lazy designs along his temple. Dorian can't bear the idea of moving. The fire has burned down, the coals bright in the dark, the stars even brighter.

When Lavellan speaks, his voice is but a low lazy rumble. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

"If I'm being honest?" Dorian turns his head slightly, brushes his nose against the warm skin of Lavellan's shoulder. "Not quite. But I feel better. And I'm somewhat relieved that if you had to choose anyone to live up these lofty ideals about love and choice, then it was me. Someone of a weaker spirit may collapse under the pressure."

“It may take time,” Lavellan promises, "but someday there'll be no doubt."


End file.
